


My Darkness, Illuminated

by kaleighhh



Category: bungou stray dogs
Genre: Angst, Dazai-Typical Suicide Mentions (Bungou Stray Dogs), First Love, Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mentioned Sakaguchi Ango (Bungou Stray Dogs), Mori Ougai (Bungou Stray Dogs) - Freeform, Post-Oda Sakunosuke's Death (Bungou Stray Dogs), dazai’s pov, i’m sorry for the angst, please help them
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:46:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26165845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaleighhh/pseuds/kaleighhh
Summary: Dazai has always felt like an outsider, even to himself.  Acts of what most would consider humane didn't suit him.  His existence had long been robbed from him, and he felt no sympathy for any living creature.That was, until Chuuya, his temper-mental partner started to unlock the pieces of him which laid in ruins, slowly starting to build them back up.
Relationships: Dazai Osamu/Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	1. A Certain Praise

**Author's Note:**

> hi guys!! this is my very first fanfic on AO3, and i’m very excited :D i’ve been wanting to attempt to capture dazai’s emptiness, and how chuuya plays a part in creating a subspace in which he can feel slightly more alive. this is attempt number one, so bear with me hehe
> 
> i hope this isn’t too dysfunctional 

Validation was not a virtue he was seeking. Nor was it loyalty, or trust—or even a vague act of love. More so, the mere calculable thought of even receiving such a seemingly honorary praise kept his gut sunken and his lungs weighed. Acts of such simple, yet exceptionally worked honor were inexcusably sickening. He wouldn't seek such useless ideas. Why elude yourself of false titles, gleeful misfortunes, temporary power to a throne of minds not that of hierarchy, but of zombies; followers of only a process in which their eyes can see and their noses can smell, when you can be a devil slicing through the inner walls of ones most private thoughts?

Dazai never thought of himself as a human being. 

But he never labeled himself as a devil, either. 

Masking his intentions to claim information, cutting loose ties to a life with no regret, no mercy present in the lonesome, midnight vacancy of his eyes, no hunger felt and no wants to be needed. And even with the overwhelming pain he proclaimed to despise, it carried a satisfaction that weakened the punch of death and decorated the idea of living.

In massive deduction, he seemed nothing but a body without a soul, searching for a reason to live whilst among a society of individual monsters, battling the need to use them as his way of defeating unknown questions. His uncertainty for the like-minded lacked acknowledgement—and as one may assume it plays out—his life long war over the avoidance of using others as chess pieces was a game he would inevitably lose. But, Dazai never considered his loss a decline in strategy or dominance. In fact, he held it close, woven securely in the threads of his outer-being, along with the thrill of the afterlife and the burning warmth of liquor consumed to numb his senses. His mind made out using others as a treat to be savored. And the more he thought about it, the more he realized it wasn't his loss, it was his most brilliant win.

Now, at the age of eighteen, overlooking Yokohama on the balcony of his apartment studio, Dazai had completely mastered the concept of trickery. His antics were not antics—but instead a tool for manipulation which was so precise, those who knew him didn't dare deny his malicious favors. His shadow lingered heavy in the dark, and his aura fused with the idea of Hell's twisted amusement.  
A source of intellect. A source of resistance. A source of broad use for any one person. 

Dazai's favorite game was acting as the fool being played on someone else's effortlessly readable board. Having yourself fall prey, following the steps of an already almost completed puzzle, and then switching the pieces out for your own. He had done this multiple times—even to his comrades, which he considered nothing more than a ring to pond off to a junk shop.

But as he viewed the very city that helped disguise his distaste for the people in which it inhabited, a feeling so foreign he almost mistook it for an illness washed over him in a tidal wave response.

He wanted an honorary title from one person and one person alone. 

Dazai wanted the burn of romance that came along with passionate love and beautiful tragedy. The acts of vulnerability, the questions—unanswered—mapped out and explained to him thoroughly; the taste of a bittersweet poison. And as though a shock of realization hit him, coursing throughout his body in an attempt to emit an automatic reply, the words that he muttered to himself over the colorful waves of city sound washed away in its waters.

But Dazai didn't forget the words he muttered—or rather—the name he muttered.

Chuuya Nakahara

* * *

"Please! Stop, I'll tell you where you can find him," the man whimpered, crimson tears draining the color from his face. Dazai displayed the mans mutilated finger to him once more before tossing it to his side, next to the gun he knew he couldn't reach, a deep chuckle breaking through the icy atmosphere.

"In all honesty, I could care less about your boss," Dazai started, "I'm simply amused by the ethnics of your character. You only have four fingers on one hand—how strange!" He grinned with a pleasurable amount of malice, watching the man in front of him shrink into the feeble state of hopelessness Dazai knew he would become. A dagger did the job, unsurprisingly. And even though he had the option to plunge the damn thing right into the mans heart, he decided against it. He had already gotten the information he needed; now, he was aching for the non-mutual feeling of inflicting pain and terror on him.

"Please. . . stop this. I'll do anything. Anything at all—but please—I can't take anymore—ah!" Dazai didn't let him finish before the idea of plunging the dagger into his chest repeated its intoxicating call in his mind. He obliged to his thoughts, only pulling the dagger out once he had watched the man plead with his eyes, his voice no longer an option, the pain too unbearable to form coherent sentences.

Dazai watched as the man choked on his blood, the wine-like color falling from his mouth like honey off a silver spoon. The satisfaction he inhaled from such a torturous execution left him feeling light, the ground beneath him only holding him up from the still very noticeable amount of crimson residue in the alleyway. His desires in that moment were to wash away the filth and lay dormant where the now hollow corpse of a small gang member lounged in eternal peace. His life had come to an end—as it does for every living creature. A mammal to the ways of society, he was. But a society which only consisted of himself. 

Before Dazai left the body to be consumed by nearby insects and witty dogs too hungry to care for the meat they consumed, he spit on the corpse.

He envied his state. An irreversible state he could only dream of enduring. Because no matter what, Dazai always escaped death—as if it was his special captivated crisis, where he breached the surface in his chains, only to be pulled back under by a force from which he emancipated himself. To die was the same as to turn a page, or taste the sweetness of a dessert. And as inevitable as death was, it sure held a steady pathway for Dazai to follow completely.

The vibrations caused by his cellphone left a wakening announcement in his return to reality. Death hid in the corners of his mind, his attention now on the caller ID displayed across his cellphone screen. He answered cautiously—worried in a sense—that his tone would leak his interior emotions. 

"Chuuya! How lovely of you to call. Are you wanting my opinion on a new, disgustingly pricey hat? Or maybe you've finally figured out an antidote to cure that nonexistent height of yours!"

"I didn't call you just to listen to you mock me, shithead. Boss needs us to check out an open-fire incident on the East side of town. Sixteen of our men were killed," Chuuya announced, his words articulated in a way Dazai knew all too well. 

"How unfortunate. I'll meet you in twenty."

"Great," he responded, sarcastically.

A sigh of relief escaped Dazai's lips, the dryness of the evening preventing his absolute want to breathe with a purpose. Scrambled in a wicked game of beating the clock of a timely death, his mind twisted, reminding his guts of their purpose as well. He would just have to get his act together and appear as enthusiastically suicidal as ever. Chuuya knew of his intentions to end his own life—hell, he even conversed on the topic with him in his free time, just to hear Chuuya eradicate his beliefs on ever wanting him to live. 

And as he neared the scene of the incident, Chuuya's dramatically red hair tingling his senses, his want to breathe with a purpose suddenly became a need. If Chuuya was the answer to his reason to live, it showed in spotlight invitation.

But Dazai was getting ahead of himself. All he knew was that the small redhead made him feel something. He wasn't sure what the feeling was, exactly. It was indescribable—a submergence of warmth that enveloped even the darkest depths of his desire to inflict pain—on others, and on himself. It was much more complicated than the soul-aching feeling of continuing to live. And it held him back from being his own worst enemy in a twisted sort of way.

But even through all this, Dazai's need to perish held a steady front. His desire to die burned above all else. And for now, he would continue to keep it that way; the foreign feeling of feeling anything at all too warm and new for him to adjust to.

"This is quite the scene," Dazai announced as he hovered over Chuuya. It would be an understatement to say he was much taller than his partner. If he wanted to, he could rest his arm comfortably on the top of Chuuya's head.

"Yeah, and you're quite the irritation. You said you would be here in twenty minutes."

"Well, how long has it been?" Dazai questioned, his ulterior motive to shoot brutally rhetorical remarks a game he expressively adored participating in.

"Stop fooling with me, dumbass. We need to report back to Boss before it gets too late. We're already behind because of your need to make an untimely entrance."

"A very sexy untimely entrance—excuse you!" Dazai proclaimed dramatically, earning a few glares from nearby crowds who so happened to come across the scene. Chuuya sighed, a frustrated boil invading his head. His partner may be a demon prodigy, but he never would have considered the fact that he could also be as irritating as a severe hangover.

"Okay, well how about you be sexy by interrogating the hell out of those three guys over there," Chuuya pointed east of where they stood now. "They definitely have something to do with this."

Dazai scanned said suspects, expecting to see people of significance. Instead, his catty eyes invaded the looks of three men with not even the slightest clue how to approach the scene, much less invest in the functioning of such a crime as to murder sixteen Port Mafia members. Their eyes were confused, their fingers twitching as an anxious reaction to the amount of people, police, and blood. One man looked as if he were on the verge of tears. Chuuya had the right idea—they did look suspicious. The display of all black they dressed themselves in wasn't exactly a contrast to the gloomy sky, or the dark aura which blanketed the crime scene in brutally freezing captivation. They looked as if they might be hiding in plain sight. Any one might look to them as suspects. But these weren't the men.

"Those aren't the people who murdered of our men," Dazai announced.

"And what makes you say that?"

"To kill as many as sixteen Port Mafia members, three anxious-looking hood boys aren't going to fit the description." He heard Chuuya sigh, a sign that he knew Dazai was right. "And even if there are more members to their simplistic gang, they're far too easy to comprehend. The Port Mafia would have seen this coming before it hit them."

"Okay, well how about we actually take the time to invest in the crime scene?" Chuuya recommended.

"No need. I know who did this." A look of absolute annoyance invaded the eyes of Dazai's partner.

"What the hell, shitty Dazai? You knew all along?" Chuuya growled lowly, like a predator about to attack its prey.

Dazai smiled, ecstatic to see his partner as lively as ever. He could feel the heat radiating off of Chuuya, and couldn't help but soak in the warmth—even if he was about to kick him in the side of the head. "No, actually. I just figured it out."

"How the hell did you figure it out?"

"It's all thanks to special gang member I happen to have stumbled across before I came here," Dazai said, his eyes darkening in time with the clouds that covered the sun from hitting the city, no reflections to mask the malice it held. "I now see his intrusion on me was a distraction."

Chuuya stared, not sure where this was going, but also intrigued. His eyes showed no sense of anger anymore. Instead, he seemed concerned—as if what Dazai was about to tell him could end the underground world in a heartbeat. 

"Calm down, it's not that serious," he assured him. "But it is a gang we need to stop. They may be a small organization, but it seems I've underestimated their use in firearms. They're very strategic with them, and know how to withstand with firearms alone. I've never come across one with an ability—his only weapon a gun."

"Can you get to the part where this ties to the Port Mafia killings?"

"Chuuya, so impatient!" He glared at Dazai, the rage starting to build again. He figured he would get to the point. "Well, after I took his weapon, he got a good swing at me, and tried to cut my throat."

Everything clicked for Chuuya at that moment, remembering the mutilated necks of the victims after they had been shot. "I see. . ."

"And also, the place in which he attacked me. It was a place with no reflections—whether it be mirrors, road signs, windows—anything that could cause a glare. And do you know why that is?" Dazai gave his partner a moment to consider the possibilities; maybe he would surprise him and actually figure this out. But he knew that was unlikely. And so he was right. Chuuya had no clue. "Their firearms have special pieces attached that prevent most sound. That's why no one heard the shooting from this crime scene. And that's why reflections of any kind are their only weak point. When the trigger to a gun is pulled, especially when dark, the ignition from the gun powder creates a rather noticeable spark that could be seen through anything with a reflection."

"So. . . the cut throats, the place of the killings, and the lack of witnesses—I see. What is this gang known as?"

"No clue."

"Huh? You dumbass, how could you not know the name of their gang?" Chuuya grabbed Dazai's collar, pulling him down with an internal strength one might not expect. Their faces were only centimetres apart, and for a moment, neither of them said anything—but instead stared with heavenly attraction. Dazai noticed how red Chuuya's face was getting, and couldn't help but point it out.

"First, tell me why your face is so red, Chibi," he cooed. The small hand left Dazai's collar, now folded across his chest in an attempt to block out the uncomfortable feeling he had, knowing that he was blushing.

"It's just hot, alright? Come on, lets go. I don't even wanna hear anymore." Dazai smirked, an envious smirk of sorts, for he had always known Chuuya had a certain attraction to him.

But now he could actually act upon it.


	2. Your Shadow Invades Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dazai plans an arrogant infiltration to get Chuuya to admit he has feelings for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dazai being dazai—but also not being dazai, and chuuya as desperate for wine as one can get
> 
> honestly, they need so much help

"Mori-san, I'm sure you find this as disgusting as I do," Dazai exerted with confidence.

"Now, now, Dazai-kun. You know I have no interest on how you perceive Chuuya." A silence followed, for Dazai felt bitter and incapable of dragging his criticism. His newfound feelings created a subspace that consisted of denying his malicious actions and the way he conversed with a poisonous tongue, the venom dripping off his lips evaporating before it hit the surface to leave any residue behind. He felt stuck in a purgatory of embracing a foreign enemy and conquering a synthetic aspiration to feel any form of love.

"Well, it's a good thing I was there. Chuuya was about to interrogate three anxious kids with no recollection of the murders." Mori trapped his left leg under his right, radiating a powerful, brutal stance that Dazai knew better than his own. Being the boss, the leader, the king reigning a society of criminals, Mori had to intimidate others. And although he didn't shadow over Dazai in intellect and strategy, his metaphorical overshadowing of power was all too distinct. One could sense his ferocious, lion-hungry, raptorial reign from the thickest lines of moonlight glow—his sign of sudden territory that no one else could recall ever getting close to.

And Dazai was his puppet without the strings to bind him there forever.

"Where is Chuuya, Dazai-kun?" 

Chuuya wasn't present. His person didn't even appear to be in the Port Mafia headquarters—his irritating aura couldn't be detected. Dazai assumed he must be back at his apartment, and an idea of deceit played through his elaborate mind. Wickedness was written in the creases of his grin as he stood up from the antique chair. "I have to pay someone a visit, if you'll excuse me," he said, aiming for the door before Mori could halt him. It was a risky move, not giving an answer to his boss, but Dazai was always an exception. Mori knew what he was capable of.

Dazai walked down the dark corridors, listening to the everlasting echoes of his shoes hitting the marble floor. As prideful as he may be, half of his pride was devoted to Chuuya, for he was his amour and his sword—a source of protection and a source of ultimate power. And the other half of Dazai's pride came from his inability to have sympathy for others. It served as a cape of cunningness that had others crawling to his feet, and his ego had long become something of a young king years ago.

The dimming sunlight hit his eyes as he rid himself of the suffocating Port Mafia headquarters. The amount of time it took to exit the headquarters seemed to stun him, for it had taken him only two minutes, but it felt like time had been dragging him on into an eternity. The air was heavy, and so was his heart. He could feel the crushing weight of a paradise with monsters lurking in the water. His breathing came as a nuisance, for it reminded him that the state he was in meant confronting his pain and problems—including his feelings for Chuuya.

Well, Dazai didn't have to tell Chuuya how he felt about him. It was an easy avoidance; every disaster, untimely action, menacing word—all were things Dazai could avoid. Even his own death. But, he knew that if he didn't express his sudden need for compassion toward his partner, it would follow him around as his own shadow, and plague him of a darkness that he couldn't escape from even in death. This was his key to freedom, his unchaining from the ultimate need to perish—and he knew this. He could feel its presence intoxicating his head. 

Yet he couldn't accept it so naively.

Dazai was deemed the Suicidal Maniac by everyone he was acquainted with—and even those he didn't know. It was his character, his role, and as if he only existed in a movie, it was impossible to change his fate. 

But Dazai wasn't just a character in a movie—he was also the actor. An actor who had a real identity that no one bothered to recognize, because who he was in the movie was who people knew him as best. And they were too foolish and lacked the agility for new information on another version of him.

Dazai's role as the Suicidal Maniac wasn't exactly a role, but more, a lighter way to cope with the emptiness he felt deep inside. But all movies eventually disperse in to a mirage, and leave behind no importance. And that was where Dazai stood now, at the end of a cliff, needing a bridge to support his walk inside a book, rather than a movie—for books held a certain depth and uniqueness that was qualified as historical. And wouldn't be forgotten.

Rubber soles smacked against the wet pavement, a harsh noise in contrast to the gentle fall of rain on Dazai's coat. He was inching nearer to Chuuya's apartment building, and could already picture him complaining about his wet clothes soaking into the carpet. To anyone else, this would have been a sign to turn around and forget about their motives. But for Dazai, it urged him to follow the sidewalk leading up to the apartment building.

It was warm inside, and his fingers tingled from the sudden change in temperature. The building was grand—almost in comparison to that of a luxurious hotel. The first floor consisted of an ethereal lobby. Golden architect scattered the entirety of the room in a blanket of beauty. Chandeliers occupied the spaces above, accompanied by renaissance art that seemed to make the lobby more expansive and intricate. 

Dazai sighed, remembering the first time he paid Chuuya a visit here. It was disgustingly fancy, but it suited his partner in insignificant ways that made the apartment perfect for him. He winked at the receptionist who stared at him with attraction hidden in her pretty eyes, and strutted into the elevator. The classical music was an irritating asset to the wealth of the people in the building, and the building itself. And it followed him out of the elevator, down the hall on the sixth story, and right into Chuuya's apartment.

"I love Bach, but not when it's following me around in a place like this. Why do they have speakers throughout the hallways? This is an apartment building, right?" Dazai complained, shrugging his dress coat off his shoulders and slinging it on the suede couch that occupied the living area. He could hear rustling in the kitchen, and decided to meet Chuuya in there, where he'd most definitely find him more obnoxious. 

Chuuya didn't like when Dazai stepped foot in his apartment. Much less when it's where he prepared his food.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Chuuya growled, meeting Dazai right before he could step into his kitchen. "Get the hell out before I beat your ass, Mackerel."

"Now, now. That's no way to speak to your guest." The spark had already been ignited, and Dazai only intended to add more fuel. This was his favourite game: irritating Chuuya. But before he could cause more perplexing internal damage, an invasive punch to the stomach had him on his knees. He tried to catch his breath, but his neck was grabbed by powerful hands. He was forced to stare into the fire storm of Chuuya's eyes, and melt from its intense heat.

"I'm not dealing with your shit tonight. Get out before I kick you through the window," Chuuya said censurably. Dazai was feeling docile in his partners' hands, but altered his process of irritation so that the situation would reconcile with his plans. 

Dazai's hands touched the marble surface below him, letting its chilling temperature contrast with his fervent body. The atmosphere was suffocating him, his simplistic attempts to infiltrate Chuuya's residence and gain information on his heart and mind losing its stability. What would his partner think if he told him his intentions with no further elaboration? Would Chuuya's impertinent and prosy mind process the information thoroughly? Or would Dazai have to further explain and produce an anthology on his feelings?

These were all rhetorical and ridiculous questions, because Dazai wasn't even sure of his exact reasons for intruding himself. He always made it willfully obvious if he wanted something from Chuuya, because Chuuya couldn't be bothered to interpret the baroque architect of Dazai's mind, and paint over the extravagant colors on his lips with a clear coat. He had made it agonizingly chaotic, with the way he refused to even attempt reading his intentions. And he wasn't going to do it now, when this was seemingly just another one of his games.

"Chuuya, what if I told you I know someone who may or may not have a so-called 'crush' on you?" He could see the way the incandescence diminished in those ocean eyes, and substituted for curiosity. His expressions were always so easy to read, and that meant Dazai was always in control. Whether Chuuya wanted to accept that absurd fact or not.

"Don't fuck with my head," he retorted, although the fire in his eyes had been put out. His pride was something he carried with him no matter the situation, and even if he found it obscure and agonizingly inappropriate at times, Dazai admired it. It was one trait he could say he had in common with Chuuya—and one of the only traits, at that. 

"I'm not; it's true."

"Yeah, and grass isn't green."

"Well, people with deuteranomaly color blindness usually see green as very light colors—usually white, so not—" Chuuya ambled away from Dazai, causing him to stop his explanation. He picked himself up with dignity. "Chuuya, how rude! I was trying to explain something to you."

"Explaining and just sounding annoying are tied very closely together when it comes to you," Chuuya muttered, waving him off and continuing where he left off in his kitchen. "I ain't a circus, so go get amused by someone else right now." His gloved hands searched for the butcher knife, letting the cool blade meet the miscellaneous fruits he was slicing previously. Dazai watched his skillful hands; delicate, yet sturdy, and it reminded him of every pretense he had ever basked in to deter Chuuya of his true intentions. Something inside of him wanted to scream—unmask every emotion he had ever secretly felt and leave himself vulnerable and naked in the head. And this was not an honorable action on his part. His partner was making him reckless, even if he didn't mean to. Dazai's restraints on his feelings were never bent—much less broken. Yet Chuuya simply ripped them apart, and scattered them into pieces that he wouldn't be able to recollect.

To get through Chuuya's infinitesimal brain how he truly felt, Dazai would have to show instead of tell. All his life, he seldom needed to have an alternative to explanation. This was a rare form of democracy in his mind where the majority of his brain vetoed anything contrary to verbal tendencies—but the lesser that said "yes" were the parts which always assisted Dazai the best. 

He was unable to propitiate his partner, and this left him indecisive—for if he couldn't please him, this feeling would linger and deem him vulnerable when looked in the eyes by Chuuya. For once in his life, Dazai was so utterly wrong. He would never fully bury his attractions, he couldn't avoid his feelings, he would inevitably break apart and crumble underneath the concrete structures he has built up all those years. It terrified him, and left his own presence as a monster ready to devour him whole. 

The city lights glowed bright outside the immaculate apartment, night falling over city in a false blanket of security that no one ever truly took for granted. There was little interaction, and distance seemed a virtue for the perpetually crowded streets. A few cars passed by now and then, eclipsing the dark corners of the dormant room—and fueling the depths of esoteric behavior spewing from Dazai's unspoken words. The white noise of the knife slicing through sweet fruit seemed dismal, and Dazai was perturbed by the lack of argument Chuuya usually drowned in.

"Why so quiet, Chuuya?" Dazai inquired. A visible haze formed over his head, and made his small stature grow with inexplicable dominance. 

"I'm thinking of all the possible ways I could chop you up with this knife. It calms my nerves to think of you as the poor fruit," Chuuya replied, his voice deep and husky. He then grinned, and it ignited a small spark inside Dazai's stomach. A shiver invaded his body and left him shaking inwardly.

"My preference isn't consistent, and I'll probably alter my methods for suicide sooner or later. I want to die with a beautiful woman, but I wouldn't object if you killed me right now." Dazai sauntered toward Chuuya with a darkness masking the admiration in his eyes. He stopped a few feet away from him, and teased with a heavy voice. If he could just anger him again, feel the warmth radiate through his leather gloves and set fire to his skin, he would be satisfied for tonight. 

Chuuya was easily perplexed, and always left a torrent of spiteful remarks and attacks on him. Remarks of verbal misconceptions of hatred and malice—and physical attacks of crimson abuse contrasted by delicate depravity.

"I'll make sure your death is slow and painful—how does that sound?" Chuuya questioned. His voice was laced with an emotion Dazai couldn't quite interpret. Whether that was do to the lack of blood flow from the intense fire blazing in his stomach, or the constant state of vulnerability he was putting himself in, he didn't know.

"As long as you promise to drink more milk instead that awfully expensive wine, I'll let you do whatever you want to me."

"If you stop making fun of my height and shut your damn mouth, I might be generous and put a gun to your head instead."

"Oh please, you're little body wouldn't be able to handle such a vigorous backfire," Dazai teased. He saw the leather from the gloves tighten around Chuuya's grip, and the small frame stalked over to him with intensified haughtiness, his shadow covering Dazai completely, and rendering him meek under his stature. "You're so small, Chuuya! How do you think I'm suppose to be intimated by you?" They were only inches away from each other now, and a heavy burden was setting its ground.

"Fuck you, you piece of shit. I'll put you on your knees and make you look up to me," Chuuya retorted. The words were meant to be menacing and dark, but it only lighted up the room with an awaited intensity—as if this feeling of requited warmth had been building up for years. He stepped closer to Dazai, the untainted fragments Chuuya had yet to destroy suddenly disintegrating in his wake. 

No longer simply an apartment, but a battlefield for two men with extemporized speeches of hatred—and of passion—the war bells rung with ear-splitting realization that after tonight, everything they had ever known of each other was going to be different.


	3. Resolution to War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which pain is inflicted, pent up fury is diminished, and some feelings are resolved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> irritating and aggressive as always, those two
> 
> i’m rereading the chapters i’ve written and i’m realising this is very bad,,, sorry,,,
> 
> but contrary to my absolute disgust for this fic, i’m ecstatic to be writing more, with less on my schedule :)

The fruit was left forgotten by the means of more severe knife-to-flesh intrusion. Groans of agony elicited from both parties as crimson residue flowed along their bodies in a river of hatred-fueled passion. Its current remained heavy even in the weightless atmosphere of negligent behavior. They were acting fools, tearing each other apart like rag dolls long forgotten and buried underneath the fashionable necessities of a growing girl. Reigning a feeling of complete indecisiveness, the battlefield which they had customized for more than foul play was slowly altering into a bedroom for more than consoling purposes.

As an heir to the underground thrown, Dazai's strategy for blocking Chuuya's sporadic blows revolved around his ability to observe his surroundings completely, and memorize them without a second glance. He could detect an alternation when receiving bewildered attacks, and he could sense any weak points which might tear his enemy down.

As a god with no substantial worshipers, Chuuya's natural instinct was the keep the embers of his pride and strength alive. He did this by perpetually attacking his enemy. His power was complete, and his attitude was impertinent. But he was artistic with his valued skills of combat, and had the agility of an olympic runner.

They were a complete contrast to each other, and it sewed them together with red and white strings, to corrupt the purity of their relationship, and create it into a beast on their enemies. 

They were two diamonds forever eroding against each other in an attempt to remain superior, but bringing themselves down just as much as the other.

Dazai wasn't sure how the conflict arose. One moment, they were bickering back and forth like an elder and a youth, and the next moment, they were at each other's throats, inflicting undesired pain on one another. This wasn't what he had planned. He merely expected Chuuya to knock him down, and bruise him up a bit—not cause him to go blurry-eyed from blood loss. This was turning into an unwanted warmth, for even as he bled from various wounds adorned across his body, Chuuya's eyes were full of guilt—and even sympathy.

But this didn't stop him from wanting to completely annihilate Dazai. 

Just like him, Chuuya would never unmask his pride and admit his wrong-doings. He kept it as his armor, and it even ricocheted bullets of reality and dark truth. So as long as the favor was in Dazai's hands, Chuuya wouldn't stop. He would continue to abuse his power, and nothing could intrude his aggressive disagreements.

Another swift punch to the stomach had Dazai ready to vomit up his own intestines. He was quickly molded to the floor, smothering it like a baby does its pacifier. Blood, sweat, a saliva were the painted works on the canvas of the wooden floorboards, and it deemed itself worthy of a costly price by Chuuya's low chuckle.

"How does it feel, Dazai? You deserve much worse than this, you sick fuck," Chuuya proclaimed with great disdain. "How about I kill you now?"

"Oh, please." Dazai turned his head to the side, smearing his various colors and adding more variation to his art. He could see the guilt as clear as tropical waters in Chuuya's eyes, and new he didn't have to do much convincing. He could confess to Chuuya soon enough—and he would believe him. Dazai had always kept a lurking gaze, and he knew feelings of more than friendship were present behind the dark blue borders and burdened pupils. After all, how could he have obtained the appellation of a "demon prodigy" if he couldn't break past the tainted barriers of Chuuya's emotions?

"Is that your only argument?"

"Well, if you're going to kill me—a desire I've had for as long as I can remember, why would I argue?" A long silence.

Chuuya stood up, freeing the bloodied figure beneath him. He sighed, as if he knew it was going to end this way, before he walked over to the bed accompanying the bedroom they had subconsciously ambled into in the midst of their fight. A cigarette was fished out of his pants pocket, and the lighter followed. With a sharp flick of the thumb, the cigarette illuminated the dark room and left the scent of long-awaited dormancy for the two quarrelsome partners. There was still a lingering feeling in the air, but neither wanted to address it, so they sat in silence for some time, listening to the jazz music being emitted from a nearby bar.

Dazai—finally—sought refuge on the other side of the bed, the farthest away from Chuuya he could be while still being wickedly close to him. He knew he needed to let the air find its calm, and the flame fade to embers before any more progression could be established. 

It was incredible and somewhat peculiar how steady their partnership felt now. After terrible waves of aching intrusions to the mind, and emotions barricaded beyond the need to be in control of every given situation, there lies a gentle current in the ocean, surrounded still by predators and disaster, but completely oblivious to that fact—as if it were in a completely different dimension, and whatever lurked outside of its reach was deemed explicit and would not be tampered with. It was a dangerous play—not having your conscience as a source of protection, but as a waste to a vibrant life. Because when you lose your conscience, you are but a mindless doll, and have no control or concept of evil and all that it can bestow upon you. You need your conscience to maneuver around evil. You may avoid Hell, but Hell will do everything in its power with its incandescent and torrent flames to make you suffer.

You must be aware of the riptide, and swim in the opposite direction of its awakening. Otherwise, you will drown and diminish with the current that kept you in oblivion.

Do you understand my metaphorical meanings?

Dazai and Chuuya can never get along. There may be occasions of amiable conversation and actions of mellow meaning, but in the end, they will always rebel against each other—as humans do. 

Peace is alluded war behind closed doors, and the concept is utterly foolish. Peace doesn't exist, and it never will. Like the ridiculous idea of Absolute Zero, in which time can be completely frozen, there are errors that cannot be fixed. Just as heat always invades even the smallest of openings on the surface, so does war and argument and wrong-doing. 

Have I made it clear for you? I hope I have.

They will never be completely happy together.

Dazai knew this, and Chuuya had a vague understanding of this disastrous relationship. Still, that foolish alarm excited their youth, and it blared with colorful satisfaction. Even with its loud and warning awakening, they found a beauty in it, for it was in that deafening alarm that they found a silence only they could apprehend.

And with no words spoken, and that silence in the awakening of color and mischief, they finally understood each others' feelings. Dazai was at a loss for words for one of the first times in his thoroughly planned lifetime. He was ready to spill his emotions like a heavy waterfall, and let the intensity disperse into a gentle flow of requited feelings. But he didn't have to, for he knew Chuuya understood how he felt, and he understood how Chuuya felt. And again, for the second time in one day, he had been wrong. 

If he was going to be completely honest with himself, he would admit that he was even a bit frightened. A lack of superstition could reveal his weak points, and if he had verbally spoken out what he thought in his head, and Chuuya found out he was wrong, it would crack the foundation of not his outer-being, but his inner-being—the most personal and well-masked madness of his mind. The singular thing that kept Dazai above all others.

"I can't stand the silence anymore." Dazai vaguely heard this, but when movement vibrated the bed, and red hair swayed in the corner of his eye, he pushed himself back into reality. He would deal with his slow unmasking at a different time. Or maybe—right now—this was his unmasking.

"I agree. I believe the silence has been loud enough today," Dazai replied. He turned to face Chuuya, and couldn't believe he had never noticed how much his partner truly desired him. It was foolish, really. He understood others could hide their feelings, but it was strenuous to hide anything from Dazai. And the fact that Chuuya could elude his state of awareness meant that he was more than just a brute.

They stared at each other, eyes sharing their thoughts. The obvious option was to communicate. But being as stubborn and prideful as they both were, communication wasn't deemed fit. Although Chuuya had to resurface a previous statement.

"So, someone has a crush on me, huh?" He smirked cynically, derisively. It caught Dazai not by surprise, but more by the rebellious air of his words, which held lingering war cries in its wake, and made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. It almost infuriated him. Chuuya had the audacity to remind him of his alluded insinuation? He was walking the line, acting so careless around his partner; a devil  
on Earth. Surely Chuuya wasn't as ignorant as to believe that he had any sort of control over him now—all because of their mutual feelings of. . . well. . . whatever this feeling was. Dazai wasn't sure. It could even be a loathing so strong, so chaotic, that it morphed into a passion. This concept, this feeling, this disturbance—it was so foreign to him, that no intrinsic resources could be applied.

He was completely and utterly stuck. And it opened new networks in the software of his scheming mind.

"Not sure," was all Dazai said. He saw Chuuya's eyes flutter, like a heavy wind carrying a butterfly; so unbearably elegant, but forceful. He had hurt him in an internal way. How? He wasn't sure. Dazai never openly admitted anything. This wasn't any different from his normal masked casualties. 

But somehow it felt like a burden—like his curt answer was locking gates and preventing his entry into resilience. He had the keys, of course. His words alone were the opening. But they were also the padlock, the lengthy, sturdy fence, the chains. He decided his own fate, just as he always has. And never had he wanted to hand the authority over, never had he wanted it to suffocate his lungs with doubt or guilt and make him claw his way around under the pressure.

Yet right now, it felt like his only authority was to give authority. And he was slowly easing it over to Chuuya. 

So much for thinking Chuuya had any power over him. Of course he did. At least physical power.   
His mind was jumbled so erratically that he couldn't even predict his own actions, much less someone else's.

"You really ought to stop being so blunt," Chuuya huffed. He didn't seem irritated—or even angry. He just seemed dazed, as if trying to gather and process what he was going to say. He wasn't a broken record; repeating phrases that held no significance and skipping the valuable parts. No, Chuuya was so unmeasurably robust. He would tear through metal as one would tear through thin fabric—much like Dazai could tear through mental observation.

"If I weren't blunt, this wouldn't be half as amusing," Dazai joked. He would be arrogant, he would be a nuisance—just as he always was around his partner. Chuuya wasn't going to unmask him so easily. This was going to be on Dazai's terms. He would give authority to Chuuya for their overall relationship, but not with how things would mentally shift inside his head.

"Heh, I guess you're right." Gloved hands caressed a lean, toned thigh. An anxiousness was overwhelming Chuuya's small stature, creating a toxicity that could peel flesh and degenerate bones. If it weren't Dazai in his room, his anxieties would be possessing the body adjacent to him, convulsing vulgar contractions. 

Dazai's thoughts were tugging at his chest, begging for attention. This feeling radiating off of Chuuya had an obvious source. He knew what it was, and his mind was going through every scrutinising outcome. 

He took a moment to examine Chuuya; breathe his air, beat with his heart, feel his blood flowing through his veins. The slight rosy colour adorned across his nose and cheeks, the way he rubbed at his thigh, how his feet feigned Roman combat at the end of the bed—his source of anxiety was from the want of touching him, Dazai was sure of it.

Chuuya wanted to hug him, possibly? 

No, they weren't nine years old.

Kiss him? Maybe. But Dazai knew he wanted more. Although now wasn't the time to be messing around. They were too new with this, too unstable. But, Dazai didn't mind insinuating a kiss. It might settle things between them for the night.

"Chuuya, have you ever kissed a man?" Dazai inquired. The rosy colour ran across Chuuya's cheeks, leaped onto his ears, and rolled down his neck. He tensed with much exaggeration.

"I ain't telling you a thing," he remarked.

"Well, I need to know," He paused, watching Chuuya swallow roughly. "If I'm going to kiss you." A small grunt emitted from his mouth as he stared at Dazai, pupils dilated and almost frightful, but shimmering with excitement. "Don't just stare. Answer the question."

He was contemplating how to answer. Dazai could guess it wouldn't be a spiteful or sarcastic remark by the way he started to fumble with his hands. "Yeah, I have."

"Oh my, I guess this will be the first time I'm a first," he mused. 

"Who said I wanted to kiss you?"

"Oh, don't even bother. You're as red as that wild hair of yours." That shut him up.

"Okay, well if you're gonna do it, get it over with." Dazai chuckled, making Chuuya tense even more. It was almost embarrassing, how foolish he was acting—as if kissing his demon of a partner was vile and unlawful and absolutely terrible. 

The thoroughly planned steps to this infiltration of deep compassion were like bodies in a grave. They were sullen, genuine, and overall completely essential to advance into something more seemingly incorrigible than what they already had. 

This wasn't just a kiss. No, this was a vortex ready to force them into torrents of toxic mental depths. This was something more complicated than Dazai's mind, stronger than Chuuya's manipulation of gravity, and as unhealthy as the story of the scars that littered both their bodies from battle.

But either way, Dazai caressed the fervent cheek that quivered at his touch. He gazed into azure eyes and watched a show of dancing emotions. He listened to the uneven breathing of a teenager with weighed feelings of admiration suffocating his lungs. And as his leaned in, greeting slightly parted lips and igniting a flame surrounded solely by gasoline, he felt so utterly alive, that the thought of bearing another pointless day left him ecstatic.


	4. My Doubt Softens Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dazai gets genuine advice from Odasaku.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapters drags—i’m very sorry lol!! i hope you enjoy :)

It was meant to be just a simple kiss—nothing too invasive or daring. But gloved fingers grasped dark hair, and lips moved to the tune of romantic want. Dazai was entangled in reaching the weightlifting light at the end of the tunnel of depravity. He was sprinting with heavy strides, blurring the corners of his eyes and focusing solely on the end, too blinded by the feeling of Chuuya's grip in his hair to decipher the means.

But he couldn't possibly be that naive, could he?

He came to a precipitous halt, lips leaving the warmth of a body who he had toyed around with for many years. The darkness enclosed his soul again, and the light at the end of the tunnel was a speck of sand.

Even though he knew why he couldn't open up completely and trust the laws of nature, Dazai still questioned it. Why was this so strenuous for him? Becoming more of a normal (as normal as one could get as an executive of the Port Mafia) teenager was obviously a gateway to resilience. But is that what he truly desired? He adored power and control. He mused himself with the idea of being able to manipulate whoever he pleased. 

But he was miserable. So utterly deprived of happiness, that even death couldn't annihilate his presence on Earth. Death pitied him, and thought that keeping his heart beating and mind awake would somehow aid him in his search for a purpose. But what purpose? Humans live to die—that's how he had always perceived any concept of life whatsoever. You are here to exist, and then you die. There are no strings attached, no deeper meanings.

So why did Chuuya's image appear whenever he argued life had no purpose? Of course, Dazai knew the answer. But he refused to accept this dangerously beautiful insight.

Chuuya stared at him, oblivious to the reasoning behind his barrier reconstructing itself. His breathing came in short, rapid intervals, the inflating and deflating of his chest pretty and foreign. He was less red across the expansion of his complexion than he was before they had kissed, and Dazai presumed it was due to his brain shutting off and diving straight into things, as he always did.

"Dazai. . ." he breathed out, like a realisation of identity to the monster in his bedroom. His hands still clung to Dazai's hair, a symbolic representation of 'not letting go so easily'. "Why did you stop?"

"I thought you just wanted to get it over with, Chuuya," Dazai mused. His mask had rebuilt itself, now perfectly reflecting his usual arrogant, clownish demeanour. 

"But. . ." he trailed off, not sure what to say. His gaze plummeted to the floor. "I didn't mean that."

Ah, so he openly admitted it? This was very out of character, and Dazai wondered if maybe even Chuuya had a pretense he couldn't detect. But he had known his intentions beforehand, and Dazai wasn't exactly altruistic with his indirect plans of bordering and infiltrating. He liked to be a menace—an arrogant menace, but wicked and merciless nonetheless. His tactics were unwelcoming, intrusive—like a hurricane raiding a helpless island—and surrounded by water, with no way to escape, all there was to do was surrender to its harsh winds and drown in its elaborate, unforgiving depths.

But no, this didn't apply to Chuuya.

Dazai had always fooled with him, and added piquancy to his antics. He was spiteful, of course, but it never held any significant amount of bite. It was more recognisable as a lions growl: alerting and alluding to great damage, but only a warning. And he would growl again and again, countless times. 

But Dazai would never attack as a lion, not to Chuuya. His derisions were solely derisions. The ferocious growl of a lion, with the bite of a flea. That was how Dazai played with his partner. And he had him wrapped around his finger like a python; a pretty silver tongue, and the eyes of a venomous snake to manipulate.

"So," Dazai started, "with that being made clear, should I assume everything you've said about hating me has always been a lie?" He smirked, soullessly. Chuuya glared with predatory disdain.

"Of course not. I hated your guts." The lie illuminated bright in his eyes, making dark blue a clear sky.

"Hated? So you stopped hating me at some point?" Dazai raised an eyebrow. An awkward breeze invaded the air. He realised he may have dug into something much deeper than just a simple crush, and the dirt was on his hands, in the cracks of his fingernails—lost in the cemetery of unforgotten conversations, and it would stain his skin and remind him of this moment forever. For when trails of deep encounters are tampered with, the feelings you witness firsthand are unexpected—and therefore memorable.

Chuuya didn't answer, and Dazai was almost more curious about that. He wasn't even picking a fight? Not even a punch to the arm? Silence was always Chuuya's characteristic flaw—he could never keep quiet if he was the prey. The question still lingered heavy, a storm cloud threatening to burst.

"How about we just not pry any further?" Dazai insinuated with a grin that reached his eyes. It was fake, of course. But the words were both for mutual satisfaction and to attempt to get as far away from Chuuya as he could.

"Yeah," Chuuya turned to face Dazai. "Just leave, you bastard. I still have food to make." Dazai nodded, content. His normal appellation of "bastard" seemed to tighten the loose screw and put their structure back into place. 

He slid off the bed, lanky limbs swaying cautiously, precisely—like it was coordinated to seem as if he were careless with what they had become. Chuuya didn't watch him as he vacated his bedroom, and only released his breath when he heard the front door close.

* * *

There was one man that promised the translucent good in Dazai, and that was Oda Sakunosuke.

How they had met was terrible and cruel, but interest in their contrasted personalities pleaded for them to be friends. When Dazai was three days away from turning sixteen, he had discovered the true essence of the inevitable good in bad.

It was the first time he had met him, and the only time he ever saw Odasaku kill someone. A woman with hair the colour of rust, eyes prosy and unpardonable. She held a bleeding child, his small groans reverberating in a gut-wrenching tune. Odasaku's gun was aimed at the woman's head, steady and unintentionally devilish. Dazai was convinced he was just another man in the Port Mafia—something so simplistic. So when he shot her, watched her fall to the dirtied pavement like a rag doll, and hummed in satisfaction, Dazai could only roll his eyes.

But then he ambled toward the weeping child, hands reaching for him like a father to his son; so soft and lacking menace in his eyes, that Dazai couldn't believe it was the same person.

It was only the second time someone had ever caught him by surprise.

That boy survived, under miraculous circumstances, and became one of Odasaku's many children he looked after every evening. After that night, Dazai had witnessed a side of humanity he thought was feigned ignorance for the animalistic characteristics of all human beings. 

He would eventually greet Odasaku at The Lupin around three nights a week, along with Ango, who would linger in the shadows of their friendship. It was Odasaku who Dazai looked up to—not Mori, not Hirotsu, not some spiritual hierarch. He wouldn't consider their relationship as father and son, or brother and brother. They were merely just friends that were fond of each other.

But that's what they were: friends. The only friend Dazai had ever had, really.

And that's why he walked into The Lupin bar with a sullen gaze and lazy strides. The taste of whiskey was even too sweet to drown the taste of bitter doubt on his tongue. 

Odasaku waited patiently for him to talk. Dazai said to get there earlier to avoid any interruptions from Ango. He enjoyed his company, but Ango was skeptical, and Dazai couldn't find himself being able to trust him.

"This is something I never thought I'd have trouble with," Dazai stated, eyes showing no emotion. It had taken over ten minutes for him to start talking—which was long for someone such as himself to get his mind together. He grasped his glass containing dark liquor, holding onto it as if it could seep into his skin and poison the conversation that lingered heavy in the air. "It's about Chuuya; I'm not sure what to do.

Odasaku didn't make any attempt to guess what about Chuuya had him so bothered. He knew better than to theorise Dazai's motives and discomforts. This would just have to be a waiting process. Strenuous as it was, Odasaku did know that if he gave him time, and let his words form into a defensive format, he would tell him eventually.

Jazz music served as a dreary tune to the wistful stare in Dazai's eyes; his own music video with no recollection of its making. He didn't bother to pick up his drink, still continuing to clutch onto it with a stern grip. With a room full of lonesome tables and chairs, not to be occupied by any breathing being, only the dust particles invisible to the human eye, he only became more confused on how he felt. He glanced up at Odasaku to find him waiting patiently, like a wise elder, with years of experience with the youth of today.

The music stopped—most likely to be switched to something more fitting for a bar that seemed to be occupied by two young men. Dazai took this as a sign to speak.

"I like him, I think. I feel different around him. . . more alive," he said, doubtfully. If doubt couldn't describe him completely right now, nothing could. He was incredibly unsure of himself, and it almost concerned Odasaku—seeing his platinum confidence shatter because of one singular emotion he had yet to be basked in. Although considering it, his doubt didn't seem unreasonable. All his life a numbness had left him clawing at himself, dragging him away from humanity and into a realm of secrecy. For him to feel doubt—it was as reasonable as gasping over not having air in your lungs.

"You like him, but you're not willing to let him break your barriers, are you?" Dazai's eyes didn't break contact, and Odasaku couldn't even begin to comprehend what he was thinking. There was no light to be warmed by, no wonder to be adventured. There was only darkness, so sickeningly hollow, that even an animal with nocturnal vision wouldn't dare to breach its surface. Odasaku felt cold.

"I'm not willing, but something inside me won't let my rationalities keep a steady front. I want to make ignorant choices around him. More than just because he's a male my age who actually displays the characteristics of a somewhat normal teenager. . . even if he is everything but normal." He stopped, most likely to not accidentally explain too far, too personally. His fingertips turned white around the glass, his grip threatening to shatter it and spew its poison.

"Why not be a kid? Let yourself go; you need some normalcy. As much as you can get in a mafia," Odasaku responded, genuinely. He watched Dazai bite into his lip, as if retaliating and not trying to say something that might hurt his friends' feelings. It took him a moment to gather his thoughts before he spoke again.

"I kissed him today. He was okay with it—he wanted it. And I could tell there was this unspoken agreement between us that we both don't really hate each other," Dazai spoke inarticulately. Odasaku could tell he was uncomfortable with confessing such, but Dazai always broke down walls if it was him. If he were to tell this to anyone else, they wouldn't know he was bothered so immensely by it.

"I don't understand you sometimes," Odasaku started. "Just give it a try. I want to see you happier than you are now. Maybe he can help you find the purpose to life you haven't been able to find by killing people." Dazai remembered his earlier thoughts about Chuuya giving him the claim of not wanting to die with such a wickedly ruthless passion. It made him pick up his drink and chug it all down his throat. It was agonising; it burned in a way that would usually be pleasant for him, but it tore at his throat instead, and left his whole body shivering. "Dazai. . ."

"Yes?"

"I don't know Chuuya very well, but I know he trusts you with his life. He wouldn't use corruption around you otherwise. If he can trust you completely, then you can at least make an effort to put a little bit of trust in him."

Dazai sighed. "I've tried, but it's not that easy." He slid the glass across the counter, almost playfully. Odasaku folded one leg over the other, like a figure of high authority.

"Then do simple things, little by little, and let yourself learn to trust him. I have a good feeling about you two." Dazai's eyes widened dramatically at his words, and he almost immediately fell into a broken smile. His hands traveled to his own thighs, and he rubbed them in an attempt to comfort himself.

He was surprised by Odasaku's determination, and it halted the shiver of the liquor. Now, he was internally shaking with anticipation, with a need to be reckless. And although he knew he wasn't going to take his advice, because trusting wasn't something Dazai would ever be capable of, he still let the light glimmer in his eyes and said:

"I'll try that, Odasaku."


	5. In the Wake of Mishap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dazai cowers at himself for not knowing what he is, Chuuya’s oblivious to certain things and not-so-oblivious to others, and a mission puts them in an unwanted position.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! sorry this one took so long, i was having writers block. chuuya and dazai are ridiculously annoying, aren’t they?
> 
> anyways, enjoy the chapter!

When one excludes the act of sleeping from one's daily routine, irritability and enervated bodies are inevitable consequences. One may notice dark circles under one's eyes, and a mind heavy with the weights of an eager need for slumber. Eyes might close on their own—a fluttering to the beautiful midnight void. . . heads nodding, breathing soft.

This was where Dazai should have ended up. But, of course, he had various ways of manoeuvring around basic human cognition. He hadn't spoken to Chuuya in four days—and he also hadn't slept due to this. He had never realised that the one consecutive hour of sleep he had been getting each night was because of his interactions with his partner. Chuuya had always eased him—in battle, but also in moonlit bedrooms, by his lonesome, surrounded by his own shadows that wept in the dark. 

Really, without Chuuya, Dazai kept to the moon for guidance these past few nights, as both were a symbol of the pull of poetic words on Earth.

It was the only thing willing to make his shadows dance and keep him company. He had no help from the sun, which had betrayed him by casting shadows over heights that were aiming for heaven. It burned his skin and revealed his scars. It left the feigned feeling of security because of its warmth and light.

But no, the moon was elegantly wicked. It promised the howl of predators, and warned of sickly crimes. It didn't lie—only alluded to what would awaken as it grew brighter. Dazai envied the way it encased the clouds of the night and still left them glowing. He yearned to possess such a beautiful form of control, in which he could keep someone happy under a benevolence he knew he wasn't capable of. 

He thought momentarily about giving up control again, but the idea left his mind as quickly as it had come. It just wasn't an option for him. Even if he knew it would become a frequent afterthought at the end of the day, he refused to acknowledge its aching importance. 

He lifted his eyes from the ground, an awareness consuming his body. As he walked closer to Mori's office, the presence of another engulfed his vivid senses. He knew the click click of those snobbishly expensive shoes more than he knew the scars which adorned his body. Of course Chuuya would be with the boss when he least needed him to.

He walked in, no hesitation present on the tips of his fingers as he closed the door behind him. Mori was seated on top of his desk, a playful façade he had established of himself to seem less threatening in the presence of someone so physically powerful. His hands rested behind him, at his sides, using them as support. His slender frame left distasteful trust, something so slim, it was hard to discover any true warmth that clung to his selfish bones. It terrified Dazai how similar they were. 

But there were white and red differences between them, too. And Dazai had to keep reminding himself that Mori was Mori, and Dazai was something that he wasn't—although he wasn't even vaguely sure what that something was.

Chuuya sat across from him, legs draped over the chair elegantly, like a waterfall in a fairytale. He must have used his ability to sit down as fast as he did, and Dazai mused himself at the idea of him racing toward feigned comfort at the thought of Dazai addressing himself so casually and dismissively. Chuuya's hands were folded together, and he noticed the ends of his fingertips were white; a sign of pressure and awareness to the tension between the two men and the one something in the room.

The depths of his waters were perpetually rising, drowning more of his human, and letting the shadows of his fears float to the top. Dazai argued with himself that having such fears made him more human that anyone, but he could so easily slip into the darkness of them, and become his fears, that his argument never held firm ground. 

He had to somehow drown his fears—tie a weight to them and force them to sink below the midnight zone, where they were too far and too blended with the depravity of what lurked so deep below. And this had to begin with acting as arrogantly normal around Chuuya as he had always been. Dazai wasn't one to have a strenuous time hiding how he truly felt under the layers of bandages that separated monster from child. This had to be simple for him—it couldn't be any other way, or he wouldn't be himself.

"Chibi, why not sit in that chair normally? Are you too small for your feet to reach the bottom?" he teased. Chuuya muttered incoherent nonsense under his breath, and then proceeded to give him the finger. Dazai tilted his head, faking a smile.

"Dazai-kun, there's no need for that right now," Mori all but scolded. It made Chuuya chuckle, and Dazai whimpered, unamused. "I need you two to complete a task for me."

Both youths eyed each other, clearly forgetting their personal troubles to fall in the long line of work in which only they could complete. The day seemed more bearable now—more casual. As if the blue of the sky had decided to blur with the clouds, the symbolistic tie that bound their city to the realm of reality. 

"I'm guessing it has something to do with the small yet worrisome gang that murdered a significant amount of our people," Dazai said more as a statement than a question. Chuuya's eyes widened with realisation, and for reason, guilt. His position switched to something close to authority—to understanding of what they might need to do. The curls of his hair seemed to become flames of fury and contemptuous hunger to avenge his colleagues. His eyes glowed the colour of an ocean in need of a storm; to settle its pent-up rage and restore its calm beauty. It was almost admirable—it was admirable. Dazai had to remember it was to anyone but himself, and sooth the tremors racing through his heart which he wasn't sure had been beating the same as everyone else's.

Chuuya grabbed his hat from the top of his head, setting it aside as if to layer down and become sympathetic. Dazai understood his hats symbolic characteristics, even if he teased him about the damned thing more than his height. He knew it was protection, knew it was loyalty. And it was something Dazai was willing to let himself relate to, because he too had an item so naturally simple, that its complex meaning made it anything but that.

"You're exactly right," Mori confirmed. He leaped off his desk, an ambiguous tuck of the hands in his pockets. One thing Dazai had learned about Mori was that if he hid his hands, he was alluding to a malicious plan. And right now, Dazai and Chuuya seemed to be his subjects. "Apparently, the leader of this gang has a thing for pretty boys, and who better to sway him than you two?" He smiled, amusement present in the corners of his eyes.

"Boss, that seems a little. . . I don't know, perverse?" Chuuya said, obviously uncomfortable. Something in his tone seemed so vulnerable, and it made Dazai's skin crawl.

Mori waved him off, muttering, "you won't have to do much." Chuuya growled lowly, obviously not content with this strategy. Dazai knew that there were other ways to deal with the situation, but Mori was sick, and he would find this extremely entertaining. He decided it was best to play the puppet, being manoeuvred by the strings tied to Mori's hands. And Chuuya's, somehow, his mind argued.

"Alright, Boss," he started with a cheerful facade, "nothing my handsome face can't complete!" He winked—at who? He wasn't sure. But it seemed to be directed more toward his partner than his devil of a boss. 

Ah, but he was the devil here, right? His eyes held no light, becoming blank and unpredictable. To admit this to himself, no matter how many times he did it, played with the complexity he had engraved into his entire being. But he didn't have time to think about to darkness slowly devouring him—or maybe—fixing him into something unknown to himself. Either way, his eyes had to hold confidence as of this moment forward, until he could retreat back to his self-loathing safely.

Dazai only now noticed Chuuya pacing toward the door after he had been hit over the head with his rather agonisingly hard shoe. "Come on, dumbass. We don't have all day," followed after the mean attack. He was glad Chuuya was oblivious to inward feelings and torture. But Mori smirked at him, obviously aware of his interior decorations of punishment.

"Report back to me soon, Dazai-kun," he said with venom on his tongue. Dazai avoided conflict, as he always did when it came to Mori, and just nodded his head, screaming terrible and vile insults internally with every nod.

"Will do, Boss."

* * *

The rain that accompanied Dazai and Chuuya on their awkward stroll to the party which was being held by a certain gang leader was nothing short of friendly. It helped to irritate them both to the point of forgetting their troubles whilst alone, and prevented any misconceptions of distrust and doubt one or the other might wrongfully discover. 

It was eerily humid, suffocating the moderate spirits out of Dazai and displaying them as heat waves in the air for him, almost mockingly. 

He brushed through the transparency of the city's lights, conquering prideful steps and pretty smiles. Chuuya was in front of him, but not by much. He seemed to be walking slower, and not strutting dramatically as he usually would. But his hair bounced with every step he took, and the swaying of his hips was envious. Dazai could bet more women wanted his body than men did. His waist was narrow, his vest acting like a corset, the dimensions of his slender figure a sight only worthy of gods. Which, in a way, was ironic. But Dazai would never remind him of his inhuman side; there was an aching hurt in the way his eyes lowered and body slumped whenever it was mentioned.

"This it?" Chuuya inquired. Ah, how extremely, snobbishly vile this mansion was. How could a lowlife gang leader even afford such a lively place? It must be a family inheritance—or maybe this leader was a sly wolf hidden in a mutts body. Dazai found it distasteful either way. 

"Unfortunately," he all but muttered out. Chuuya raised an eyebrow, but shrugged him off as if he were a crying baby in a park.

"Let's get this over with," he replied nonchalantly. They walked up the stoned driveway, watching as girls from the second-story balcony screamed as a man jumped off the balcony into the pool below. They only cheered for him after he breached the surface of the water and waved his hands childishly at them.

Another group of males were racing around the great expanse of the lawn, roughing each other up, but also play-fighting rather girlishly. One man used his advantage of height to stomp over a younger boy in order to beat his friend in their sloven races. The young boy started wailing, face scrunched in utter displeasure, but the men of the group did nothing to help him except tell him to "suck it up".

Yes, this place was absolutely vile, in Dazai's eyes.

The security guard at the front door didn't bother to ask for either of their names as the pair ambled into the crowd of drunken gang members and elite alike. It was as loud as a rock concert inside the mansion, and it echoed almost deliriously in their ears. There were almost no women inside at all, and Dazai had only noticed those few girls outside. A weight in his gut kept him strained, and he found that he wasn't quite able to breathe in the air of the party and walk into oblivion on this mission.

Mori had made them wear tight clothes, likely to add to the leaders' taste. Dazai was thin, but somehow the material managed to hug at his slight curves and accent them to an appropriate manner. His attire was black to contrast his pale skin, while Chuuya's was red; passionate and full of fury. 

It's quite a wonder how people create characteristics and emotions out of colour. Dazai thought, in a way, that it was ridiculous—to be defined by a basic aspect of daily life. But he did agree, to some extent, that Chuuya's colour was most definitely red. He resembled it in a way so human, that Dazai's heartbeat was something he noticed was present. He could hear the blood racing through his veins, could saunter about with legs that carried him so gracefully. His sorrows held no colour; it was an empty void. But Chuuya could brighten his cheeks, at least, and that was more than enough for him.

"Again, let's get this over with," Chuuya said, walking farther into the estate. "I need a fucking drink already." Dazai chuckled at that, and followed close behind him into the main room. They searched around, but couldn't find a single bartender or host anywhere. A low grumble emitted from Chuuya's lips and made its way up to Dazai's ears rather viciously.

"Stop acting like a desperate alcoholic," Dazai sighed, walking backwards away from Chuuya—as a joke, of course. But, his actions led him to trip over a guests' shoe, and he tumbled down right in front of the person they had been looking for. He inwardly cringed at himself, scolding himself for his foolish antics just in order to mess with Chuuya.

"Are you alright, young man?" the leader asked. He held out his hand, an allusion for greater misfortunes. Dazai reached for it, feeling Chuuya's glare burn through his skull. The leaders' hands were cool to the touch, the lines of his palms a story of abusive tragedy toward the unwilling and sacrificed. His story seemed to seep into Dazai's skin, and he now felt even more uncomfortable—but also more inclined to stop the line of work with which these men had acquired. Abuse and murder were one thing, but lack of consent to sexual pleasure was something Dazai didn't tolerate.

"Yes, sorry for being so clumsy," Dazai played along. As he was hoisted up, he could feel two pairs of eyes examining him thoroughly, one of predatory mishap, and one of what seemed like genuine concern. The leaders' hand lingered too long for Dazai's liking, and he brushed it off with contempt. Chuuya walked closer behind him—his shield about to be put in motion if any questionable actions were committed.

The leader stared at both men with eagerness, and the intentions his eyes failed to hide were nauseating. "Can I offer you both a drink?" He asked almost frantically. Dazai and Chuuya eyed each other knowingly.

"Of course," Dazai answered for them both.


End file.
